


And We Change With Time

by Musyc



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Character Death, Community: hp_rarities, Draco Malfoy - character, F/M, Lucius Malfoy - character, Narcissa Malfoy - character, Timeline alteration, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-26
Updated: 2009-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-03 19:17:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Musyc/pseuds/Musyc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are points in every person's life where the future rests on the choices of the past. Most who have made the wrong choices never get to make up for their mistakes. Narcissa Malfoy has the chance to correct her future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And We Change With Time

_Tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis._

In May of 1998, the war ended with the death of Harry Potter. The next day, at the celebratory feast, Narcissa Malfoy watched, her mouth spelled shut and her eyes spelled open, as her sister was rewarded for the death of Molly Weasley, as her brother-in-law was rewarded for the death of Remus Lupin. Narcissa watched, frozen in place, locked in a spell that kept her limbs in stasis. Not the _Imperius_. No. She hadn't been given the mercy of that, the release of her own control, the entrapment of her senses. She was wide awake, fully conscious, standing with every sensation alive, every sense alert. There was no mercy for Narcissa Malfoy, and none for her family.

She watched as her husband and son were dragged before the Dark Lord, watched as they were shoved to their knees in chains. Her handsome husband, his grey eyes swollen shut and his blond hair stained red with blood. Her handsome son, the spit and image of his father, from the grey eyes and blond hair to the skull and snake branded in his forearm. They knelt, side by side and identical, their pale skin gone dull and shadowed, their pale heads bowed. Lucius knelt still and motionless; Draco trembled.

The Dark Lord was displeased. Lucius had destroyed the prophecy, Draco had been unable to kill Dumbledore. Their master, their lord, had called these missions critical, had considered them crucial to his success, and they had failed. Narcissa had known, even then, that her family was lost, that her husband and son were marked for death. She tried to make a difference, tried to redeem her family before their last chance was spent. In the woods, in the clearing, she had knelt at Potter's side and placed her hand on his chest, had felt for his pulse. Weak, thready, but there. _Does he live_, the Dark Lord had asked, and Narcissa had stood and said, "Yes."

It hadn't been enough. Not enough. Her husband had failed, her son had failed, and ultimately, she had failed. She watched through spell-opened eyes and screamed through spell-sealed lips as the Dark Lord stood and pronounced judgment. Lucius, for his failure to retrieve an item of prophecy, a glimpse into the future, was ordered to live with his eyes burnt out, his vision taken for the vision he destroyed. Draco, for his failure to kill, was sentenced to death.

Narcissa watched and screamed in silence as her husband was blinded and her son was murdered, thrown screaming to the wolves. She watched as her family and her hope died. She raised her eyes from the remnants of her son's body, from the smear of blood across the stones at the Dark Lord's feet, focused on the man standing at the side of the throne. Severus met her eyes and looked away, turned away as the Dark Lord made a gesture. The wolves gave their triumphant hunting howl and Narcissa's stasis broke. She held her ground and spat in the face of Fenrir Greyback. As he reared back with her son's blood staining his claws, Narcissa reached up to her throat, wrapped her fingers around the chain of the black-jeweled pendant that dangled between her breasts, closed her eyes, and whispered. "_Tempus muto_."

* * *

In July of 1997, Lucius Malfoy knelt in Azkaban. Narcissa screamed and struggled in the arms of a guard as her husband slumped and his face slackened under the chilled force of a Dementor's kiss. She fought the guard, clawed at his face and eyes until she made a hit, his eyeballs flattening like a beetle under a boot, and he shoved her away with a shout. Narcissa ran across the stone chamber to snatch up her husband's body, clutching Lucius to her breast. His pale hair, whitened with stress and imprisonment, was stained with dirt; his pale skin was grey with worry and the utter absence of life. Of soul.

Narcissa crumpled to the floor with Lucius cradled in her arms, and she screamed. Her face raised to the ceiling, pointed at the circling, gibbering Dementors, and Narcissa screamed. In her arms, Lucius stared blindly, his breathing as slow as the erosion of mountains, his face as still as the mask he'd worn for so much of his life. His jaw hung slack, his tongue protruded, swollen and white. Narcissa clung to her husband and _screamed_, tears dripping off her cheeks and falling from her chin to land on his face, to slide off his chilled skin and soak into his collar.

"I'm sorry, my love, I'm sorry," she cried, her voice as broken as Lucius' gaze. She bent her head over his, pressed her lips to his icy forehead. Her hair fell around her face and shielded her tears from the silent guards and the shrieking Dementors. Narcissa heard footsteps, the heavy tread of thick-heeled boots clunking across the floor toward her back. She rounded her shoulders and clung to Lucius with one arm, clutched her soul-less husband to her chest and kissed him as she pushed her fingers into the bodice of her dress. Caught in the lace and fastenings was a thin gold chain, and between her breasts dangled a pendant with one large, steel-grey jewel. Narcissa gripped the chain tight as a hand fell onto her shoulder, and she whispered. "_Tempus muto_."

* * *

In June of 1996, Narcissa Malfoy stumbled up the stairs of her mansion, her slippered feet scuffing against the treads of the steps. She clung to the elaborately carved banister as though nothing but it held her fastened to reality, and she sucked in air in deep and rasping gulps. The Death Eaters had finally left her home after clearing out half of her wine cellar and breaking most of her china along with her heart. The last to leave had been the Dark Lord, and before he'd left, he'd cupped her face in his chilled, bony fingers and given her an icy smile. "I have many expectations, Narcissa," he told her, as the snake draped across his shoulders lifted its blunt head and flickered its pointed tongue across her cheek. "Many expectations. I'm quite certain he will fulfill them ... admirably."

Narcissa climbed the stairs, holding back her sobs. She had bitten through her lip in efforts not to scream as her son knelt before the Dark Lord with his left arm extended and trembling, as he screamed for her when the Mark was burned into his flesh. He had struggled, he had fought, he had begged to be released from the Dark Lord's service. Narcissa watched and screamed in silence as blood dripped from Draco's arm and tears dripped from Draco's cheeks and he called for a father locked behind bars on an island in the North Sea. The others watched and laughed as her son, her only child, was taken into their fold, the youngest member of that dark brotherhood since her cousin had sacrificed his future. Draco's future had been sacrificed for him, and Narcissa climbed the stairs to bring him what comfort she could.

She scratched at his door and called his name. Nothing answered her but silence. Narcissa clutched the neckline of her robes as her heart raced and her breath failed her. She rattled the handle of the door and it turned in her palm. She pushed the door open and screamed without sound. Draco. _Draco_. Sprawled on the floor at the foot of his bed, his left arm a mass of ruined, wet flesh in red and black, with a knife held in his limp right hand. Blood soaked her robes as she knelt beside her son, blood smeared her hands as she turned him over and his dull, empty eyes stared into nothing. Narcissa smoothed Draco's hair back from his forehead and sobbed. "I'm sorry, Draco, I'm sorry. I never ... I had a plan, Draco. Severus...." She swallowed convulsively, her voice breaking, and she slipped her hand into the bodice of her robes. Her fingers locked around the chain of a pendant with a jewel in pale, pearlescent grey. "This isn't what should be. _Tempus muto_."

* * *

In June of 1995, Lucius pushed Narcissa's dressing gown from her shoulders. She smiled and purred at him, the tip of her tongue wetting her lips as he bent to her and kissed a line across her collarbones. He licked the column of her throat and suckled at the hollow below her ear as his hands delved under the hem of her short nightgown and gripped her hips. Narcissa bit her lip to hold back a groan when Lucius whispered into her hair. The request he made was one she granted with a thrill of pleasure running down her spine, and she blew him a kiss as he stepped away from her and stretched across the bed. Narcissa unlaced her gown and dropped it to the floor to stand in the middle of their bedroom adorned in nothing but her jewelry and the glory of her hair.

She turned, slowly, her arms extended to display her body in full, her head twisting and shaking to make her hair dance around her curves. When she made a complete circuit, she brought her hands up to her shoulders and tossed her hair back, smiling as she watched her husband lay his hand over his groin and stroke the evidence of his stirring arousal. Lucius had always been fond of her hair, from the first day they had met. Almost twenty years of marriage, and she could still turn him on with a flick of her hair, with the slightest twitch or twirl of her locks.

Narcissa brought her hands up to cup her breasts and stroke her hips. She stilled as Lucius' face twisted, as he gripped at his arm with a sharp hiss of pain. He shoved at his sleeve and in the candlelight, the faded scar on his arm seemed to glare from his skin. Narcissa, her heart fluttering like a trapped bird, rushed at the bed, climbed onto it and onto Lucius, straddled his hips and ground against him. "No, Lucius," she murmured, catching his hands and bringing them to her body. "No. Just a muscle cramp, that's all, my love. That's all. It's nothing. _Nothing_. Touch me, Lucius." She slid his hands between her thighs and leaned down to kiss him, her fingers threading through his hair. "Touch me."

Lucius pulled her down, his face flushed and his eyes distracted. Narcissa drew on reserves she didn't know she had, put forth efforts she never expected. She prayed in silence and made love to her husband, her hair falling around them in a golden veil. Lucius gripped her hips and rolled her over, pressing up onto his hands and claiming her body. He arched his back and cried out, and a voice cracked in the room as a trio of dark-robed forms appeared in the shadows. "_This_ is what stopped you from coming to our Lord? Lucius, how disappointing. No woman is that good."

Lucius' jaw dropped and he stiffened, with a green flash of light outlining his form. Narcissa screamed as he collapsed on her, his body slack and his eyes dulling. Over his shoulder, masks gleamed in the candlelight, and a thin arm raised to point a wand again. Narcissa screamed, scrabbled her hands under her husband's shoulders, gripped a thin gold chain between her breasts and locked her fingers around a pendant, a diamond of purest clarity. "No. _No_, Lucius. _Tempus muto_!"

* * *

In May of 1994, Druella Rosier called her daughter to her side and held a trembling hand out. Narcissa drew up a chair to the deathbed, tears wiped off her cheeks with the sleeve of her robes. "Mummy," she whispered, clasping her mother's hand in both of hers. She bowed her head, holding her mother's hand, bony knuckles pressed to her forehead. "Mummy, you can't go. I still need you."

Druella took a short, shuddering breath and gave Narcissa's hand a weak squeeze. "It's time. Fetch my jewelry box, Cissy." Her voice, cracked and quavery, still held the force of her youth, and Narcissa moved before she realized she'd obeyed. She took the carved box off Druella's dressing table and stilled, glancing into the mirror at the bed as her mother spoke again. "No. Not that one. The _other_ one."

Narcissa set the box down and flexed her fingers to ease the shake out of them, then reached to the back of the dressing table, to the palm-sized box resting against the exact center of the tall mirror. She cradled the box in both hands and carried it to Druella, set it gently in her mother's knotted, arthritic grip. Druella placed the box on her stomach and pried it open, then lifted out the end of a long gold chain. Resting on the velvet bottom of the box was a large, elongated diamond, shaped somewhat like a squat wand. Druella patted the diamond and held her hand out to Narcissa. "My time is past, Cissy. There's still plenty for you, and it is very important for you to know that there is always more time. _Always_." She gripped Narcissa's hand, unexpected strength making Narcissa grimace and snap her eyes to her mother's face. "There's always more time, Cissy. And with this, you will always find it when you have need. Its power is limited, so you must not use it until you need it most. When you have no other hope, when all seems lost, you will find the time."

Narcissa lifted the pendant out of the box and felt a slight roughness against her thumb. She turned the diamond over and peered at the tiny carved letters. _Tempus muto_.

* * *

In June of 1995, Lucius gripped his arm and hissed in pain. Narcissa rushed to his side and kissed his cheek, his chin, his mouth. "Go, Lucius," she said, her voice breaking. "Go, and come home to me. Come home, my love. Nothing matters, as long as you come home."

In June of 1996, Draco bent his head to Narcissa's hands as she stroked his fringe back and kissed his forehead in blessing. "Go, Draco," she murmured, pulling him into a tight embrace. "Don't be afraid. I have a plan, and I have faith. We'll make it through this, we'll live through this. Now go. It's time."

In July of 1997, Narcissa wrapped her arms around her husband, weak and pale from the rigors of Azkaban, but alive. She wrapped her arms around him and sobbed into his robes, clinging to her husband with the last shreds of her hope re-forming around her heart. "All I ever ask, my love, is that you come home. I missed you, Lucius." She raised her head and kissed away the tears that streaked down Lucius' cheeks. "You're alive, you're home."

In May of 1998, the war ended with the death of Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort. Narcissa clung to her husband and son, stroking their hair and hugging them tightly with a tarnished chain and cracked jewel cold against her breasts. Her husband, her son, her family. Safe. They were alive, they were together. That was all they needed, and everything would be all right. She had her family. She had all the time in the world.


End file.
